


if i lay here

by thankyouforexisting



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Death, Depression, Everyone lives, Homophobia, Josh has schizophrenia, M/M, Misogyny, PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Substance Abuse, Therapy, Triggers, discussions of mental health, internalized ableism, slowly getting better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 07:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankyouforexisting/pseuds/thankyouforexisting
Summary: “She wants me to go to therapy,” Chris says.“That’s not too unreasonable, is it?” There’s the sound of fabric against the microphone, as if Sam was leaning her phone against her clothes or something. “I mean. We saw some shit.”They really fucking did.“I just don’t get how a therapist is supposed to help,” he kicks the end of his bed. “They’re not even real scientists.”Sam chuckles. It’s not funny. “I don’t think we have a fair grasp on what’s real or not anymore, Chris.”Silence, only the intermittent noise of connecting phone lines.“Give it a shot, okay?” she murmurs. “It can’t be worse than what you’ve been through, can it?”Despite himself, that makes the ghost of a smile appear on Chris’s face. Irony, if nothing else, can be truly refreshing. “I don’t really know what could be.”“I do,” Sam says, unhesitant, so quick and certain it startles him. “It would be worse if we hadn’t all made it.”Sometimes, Chris remembers why Josh (Josh, Josh, Josh) likes Sam so much.“Yeah,” Chris whispers.// a pathway to recovery. slowly but surely





	if i lay here

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol  
> This was my Christmas gift to one of my best friends, Hannah <3 She loves Until Dawn and I wanted to write her something Chris/Josh with recovery, psychological therapy, and dealing with the aftermath. Please beware, as this fic contains severely mentally ill individuals recovering after a traumatic experience. It is not light hearted.

  
  
  
  
  
  


_ Satan's dog is at the front door, I'm giving her a biscuit _

_ I can't cope with a petty modern life, you blink and then you've missed it _

_ Everything is shit except my friendship with you, with you _

\- Everything is Shit Except My Friendship With You, Ball Park Music

  
  
  
  


Back when Chris was a nerd, back when his glasses were so thick he had a hard time holding them up with his tiny noise, when his t-shirts were too big and his hands too small. 

 

Back then.

 

Chris looked at Josh, with his easy laughter. Josh, with tendrils of fire dancing in his stare. Josh, who didn’t even have to use Urban Dictionary to keep up with other boys. Josh, so charming and suave as he never hesitated while talking to pretty girls.

 

Chris looked at Josh, who for some reason had declared him a friend, and thought,  _ I want to be like him someday _ .

 

…

 

Chris blinks. 

 

Once, twice.

 

The bright hospital lights are such an enormous contrast to the rest of the past ten or so hellish hours that it hurts to keep his eyelids up. They’re LED, not a tinge of beige but full on white, and the waiting room is illuminated completely despite the fact that it can’t be too much past the first hints of morning. Chris rubs at his eyes (his fingers still smell like blood, still stink of sweat and hastily wiped tears, even after cleaning them) and notices, almost absently, that his hands are shaking.

 

“Chris.” Mom’s voice trembles, quiet. She’s holding on to the chair Chris is sitting on, her grip so tight he wonders if she could manage to break it. Mom’s never been great at reigning herself in. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home -?”

 

“I’m sure,” Chris murmurs, husky. He wasn’t really thinking about keeping his voice in good shape while he was running for his life, so he’s stuck with a sore throat and whispers for now. “I’m sure, Mom.”

 

“...Okay,” she bites her lip. 

 

She’ll try again in a few minutes. That’s what they’ve been doing for the last two hours. 

 

It had taken hospital staff a bit longer than an hour and a half to make sure that Chris was alright, and that was after the gritty, invasive witness report all of them were forced to give to the police. In the end, the paramedics confirmed that there wasn’t much physically wrong with him, besides severe exhaustion, dehydration and some non-serious wounds they quickly patched up. One of the medics muttered that he was lucky not to have lost a finger in that cold, without any gloves on. They’d offered him some sleeping pills to get him to rest, even insisted on it, but Chris had refused. Mom would drag him home the second he was unable to put up a fight.

 

He wasn’t leaving this hospital until the others did.

 

Jessica had gotten out of surgery (she’d fractured a vertebra in her spine when she fell) about twenty minutes ago. The doctors didn’t know how she’d recover, exactly, but they did assure everyone that there was very little likelihood of paralysis. Chris visited her in the intensive care unit, after it was allowed. Stood there, silent and unsure, as her heart monitor beeped reassuringly. Jessica’s parents kept crying in the corner. Her mother had started sobbing out loud since she’d been informed Jessica was found almost naked, and hadn’t stopped since.

 

_ “Don’t worry,” _ Chris wanted to say.  _ “Nobody raped her. She was just about to have sex before monsters dragged her through the snow.”  _ But they wouldn’t even hear him.

 

“Come on, Chris,” Mom said then. She held his hands, rubbed her thumb on his palm in slow, calming circles. “Let’s go now,  _ please _ . Everyone’s alright.” Her eyes welled up with tears. “Let’s go home.”

 

But everyone isn’t.

 

…

 

_ Josh didn’t stop screaming, didn’t even take a breath, as they led him inside the ambulance.  _

 

_ It continued for the entire 2 minutes it took the crew to get him in, strap him securely, and close the doors. Josh, his best friend, the person who he’d seen sawed in half.  _

 

_ Chris didn’t want to know what had happened to him down there. _

 

_ Mike didn’t say. _

 

…

  
  


Chris wakes up in his bed the next day (he thinks, but time is strange, right now), with no memory of having got there. For one blessed, beautiful moment, he thinks, dizzy with relief,  _ It was a dream _ .

 

And then he sees the gashes on his arms. 

 

…

 

It takes three weeks for Chris to be able to leave the house.

 

He’d have been out even later, if his Mom hadn’t been persuaded otherwise. She keeps hovering over him, bringing him breakfast in bed, kissing his forehead as tears slide down her cheeks. Miranda Hartley has decided that her son is now glass, and she’ll babyproof the entire world if need be. Chris spends more days than he can count simply...coping. Well. He does his own way of coping, which is trying to forget and resisting the urge to get drunk.

 

Because Chris has never gotten drunk without Josh there.

 

_ (Without Josh passing the liquor, laughing and teasing. Josh is the kind of drinker who goes all out, doesn’t take moderation into account. He likes chugging absurd amounts and then winking at Chris, as if challenging him to do the same. _

 

_ “This isn’t a dick-measuring contest,” Chris tells him. “You could have just brought your jock friends for that.” _

 

_ He wonders. Why Josh never does. _

 

_ His friend rolls his eyes. “They’re not as fun to corrupt as you, dumbass. Come on,” he reaches out to Chris, a rum and coke in his hand, and smiles. “It’s not too strong, just try it.”  _

 

_ For a second, Chris hesitates. He knows he could say no, knows that while Josh can be a bit of a dick, he’d never go that far. The guy has always respected his decisions, all alpha male bullshit he puts on aside. Usually, Chris sighs and declines his outlandish offers. _

 

_ But right now - the soft sun rising from the mountain, the leather chairs that seem to squeak every single time he shifts, wearing Josh’s hoodie that smells like his ski kit and pine trees - Chris wants to go all out. _

 

_ “Oh, whatever,” he mutters. Chris hopes his cheeks aren’t pink. God, that would be mortifying. _

 

_ He goes to get the drink, and just before Josh lets go, their fingers touch.) _

 

And he’s afraid that if he starts drinking, he may never stop.

 

At first, Chris doesn’t really know what he can do in an empty house that’s too big for two lonely people. Mom lets Sam come by sometimes, but she always supervises, bites her nails and observes creepily like some kind of stalker. Sam pretends she doesn’t mind (Sam’s good at playing it cool, always has been), but even Chris knows it’s quite shit to be babysat like a child after years of unquestioned autonomy. Eventually, they just agree to talk when there’s not so many people around who could legally institutionalize them. So that means the two of them, mother and son, are alone, nothing specific to do.

 

He shouldn’t have worried.

 

His mom buys ten different board games at the nearest toy shop. She pays all the contracts for the stupid, unnecessary channels on TV no one actually watches. Digs up Chris’s old guitar that he hasn’t played in at least 5 years, at a time when he was desperate to impress some girl in his biology class (she’s a lesbian now). One of the days she leaves the house (always calling Grandma to come over, he’s never, ever alone) Mom comes back with the PS4. Mom hasn’t been this invested in what he does with his spare time since he was 13 and she caught him jerking off. 

 

They keep themselves entertained, somehow.

 

...There’s a lot of small talk about the weather.

 

And yet, after three weeks, Mom sits him down at the kitchen table.

 

“I’ve been talking to some people,” she says. That’s never a good sign, but Chris nods anyway. She laces her fingers together in a nervous tic. “I...Chris, I think we should take you to see a therapist.”

 

“...A therapist,” Chris repeats. His mouth tastes like cotton, dry and heavy.

 

Mom curls her hands into herself, just a little. “I’m not...I don’t have a lot of experience with them, but. The paramedics, and the police officers...They all said situations like...this.” Like battling supernatural monsters that shouldn’t exist, like seeing a man’s head ripped off, like learning your best friend’s sister ate her twin to survive. “Are very hard on people, especially teenagers.” She clears her throat. “They think having...someone… would help you get better quickly.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Mom licks her lips. “What do you think, Christopher?”

 

Chris shuts his eyes. 

 

Honestly? He wasn’t considering the “mental trauma” and “emotional baggage” that this would bring down the line. He wasn’t fucking - He didn’t fucking  _ care _ about his mental health when he got told who to cut in half and had a timer tick away, hearing his friends scream for their life. Begging, bargaining in his affections so as to make him falter and save them. 

 

This sounds like fucking bullshit, to be honest. Sitting down to talk to a nicely-dressed woman who thinks she knows him, who crosses her legs one over the other and talks softly but says nothing, just like in all the movies. He doesn’t want to tiptoe around saying “wendigos killed a man and his blood splattered on my face and I ran for my life”, in fear of getting dragged off to a madhouse. Chris doesn’t want to speak about what he’s feeling. 

 

Chris just wants to erase it.

 

“I don’t know how that’s supposed to help me,” he says, biting. Mom flinches, but he can’t bring himself to apologize, even though he knows he’ll regret it, regret it. Knows that this is one of the closest times he’ll ever come to seeing Mom vulnerable. His lips curl, a malicious snarl, and he looks up at her, defying. This will hurt her. “Did you go, after Dad died, Mom? Did that make you  _ get better _ ?” 

 

She stands up. “We are  _ not _ talking about your  _ father _ -” her voice breaks, and she goes silent, almost like a candle snuffed out.

 

“I’ll give you a few days to think about it,” she ends up saying, firm, right before walking out of the room, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. Code for:  _ I’ll give you a few days to realize I’m right and you’re wrong. _

 

It’s stupid. It’s actually ridiculous. Chris hasn’t cried ever since they got picked up by the police at dawn, hasn’t even shed a fucking tear for anyone or anything. This whole time, he’s been quiet, and thinking, about not thinking at all. He saw Mike lose a finger on his hand, which means he’ll lose the football scholarship he’s been working towards his entire high school career, and didn’t even flinch. Saw Sam’s eyes harden with something that had never been there before, and accepted it.  Calmly witnessed Jess being dragged out of the house, more crimson visible on her skin than anything else. But when he realizes he just argued with his Mom, when he realizes that she’s angry at him,  _ Mom _ -

 

Chris falls apart; a castle made up of cards blown away by a merciless, uncaring gust of wind.

 

…

 

“She wants me to go to therapy,” Chris says.

 

“That’s not too unreasonable, is it?” There’s the sound of fabric against the microphone, as if Sam was leaning her phone against her clothes or something. “I mean. We saw some  _ shit _ .”

 

They really fucking did.

 

“I just don’t get how a therapist is supposed to help,” he kicks the end of his bed. “They’re not even  _ real _ scientists.”

 

Sam chuckles. It’s not funny. “I don’t think we have a fair grasp on what’s real or not anymore, Chris.”

 

Silence, only the intermittent noise of connecting phone lines.

 

“Give it a shot, okay?” she murmurs. “It can’t be worse than what you’ve been through, can it?”

 

Despite himself, that makes the ghost of a smile appear on Chris’s face. Irony, if nothing else, can be truly refreshing. “I don’t really know what could be.”

 

“I do,” Sam says, unhesitant, so quick and certain it startles him. “It would be worse if we hadn’t all made it.”

 

Sometimes, Chris remembers why Josh (Josh, Josh,  _ Josh _ ) likes Sam so much.

 

“Yeah,” Chris whispers.

 

…

  
  


_ “You should just ask her out, you know,” Josh grins. “Ashley,” and Chris chokes on his sandwich. _

 

_ It takes him a few seconds to stop coughing out lettuce and mayo, with the help of his friend patting him in between the shoulderblades so hard he almost falls on his face. “I - I don’t know what you’re talking about.” _

 

_ Josh raises his eyebrows. “You don’t? Do you think I’m blind?” _

 

_ The tone is teasing, friendly, but the way Josh says “blind”, the way he spits it out with just a bit more spite than the rest of the sentence...it makes Chris’s chest tighten. Josh and Chris don’t fight. They just  _ don’t _. They bite their tongue and ignore that they’re angry at each other, look the other way with tenacious determination. Chris doesn’t complain about all the girls that Josh uses, Josh doesn’t complain about Chris’s....  _ Chrisness.

 

_ “No, ‘course not,” Chris mumbles. “I uh. I just didn’t think you’d notice.” _

 

_ “I noticed,” Josh says, and his smile is back. Thank god. “Everyone on the entire town noticed, man! You’re pining like a fool.” He puts his arm around Chris’s shoulder, laughing and knocking their heads together. Ouch. God, Josh has a thick ass head.  _

 

_ “I’m not  _ pining _!” _

 

_ “Good thing we live near a forest then, ‘cause I see a lot of pine.” Josh winks exaggeratedly. “Come on, dude. Go for it. Ashley’s cute, she’s nice, she’d totally say yes to you.” _

 

_ Chris rolls his eyes. “Friendly reminder that I’m Chris, not Joshua? The last time I asked a girl out was uh. Never?” _

 

_ His friend sighs. “Where have I gone wrong with you, young padawan.” _

 

_ The reference makes Chris’s head snap up, a delighted smile painting itself on without him realizing it. “That’s from Star Wars.” _

 

_ “Well, I was  _ bound _ to pick something up from it after you made me watch it five times in a row,” Josh jokes. His hands rub on his back, a reassuring touch. It’s...nice. Chris isn’t used to being touched much, especially by other guys. Josh is pretty much the only male friend he has, and girls like him, but not that much. He’s not the most tactile of people, so he doesn’t mind terribly, but Josh’s touch feels really, really good. Josh has soft hands, even after football practice, and the expert touch of someone who’s gone to PT all his life. _

 

_ “You totally like it,” Chris insists. “Stop being in denial.” _

 

_ Josh’s smile scrubs off his face instantly, a stark contrast.  _

 

_ “‘M not in denial,” he mutters, just before walking off in the direction of the football field. _

 

_ Chris doesn’t know what he did wrong. _

  
  


_ … _

 

The first few therapy sessions are excruciating, to say the least.

 

His therapist’s name is Margaret. She’s a tall, middle aged blond woman with brown eyes and a hooked nose that Chris legit can’t stop looking at, no matter how much he tells himself to ignore it because it’s rude to stare. She has that kind of unsettling, benign grandma-from-a-horror-movie smile that creeps him the fuck out, and Chris feels anything but comfortable. 

 

“I know this must be very strange to you,” she says. No shit. “But I’m glad you’re utilizing every tool you have after the unfortunate incident that occurred to you.”

 

Jesus.

 

( _ Sam told him she saw papers all around, forms signed by multiple mental health professionals, all talking about Josh. She confessed about the prescriptions, about the opened, empty bottles of pills lying around like collected trophies. Josh never told Chris about visiting a psychologist, much less going regularly to one. _

 

_ He wonders, now, just how much Chris really knew Josh. _ )

 

It’s really awkward, being in therapy. Chris feels like he’s gotta be one of those people in Hannibal NBC or something, having secret revelations every five minutes and lying on a couch, staring up at the ceiling. He murmurs out short, stilted sentences, and stays quiet for longer periods of time than he actually talks. There’s this incredible, almost unstoppable urge to run away from here, the part of him that’s terrified to ever open up, to accidentally let go of too much.

 

“Yeah,” Chris says. “Well.”

 

Margaret smiles her creepy smile. “Don’t worry. We’re just getting started.”

  
  


…

  
  


Chris has his first panic attack in the middle of Walmart, at ten o’clock in the morning.

 

Mom needs to finally go back to work (her employers weren’t okay with her taking so much time off, unsurprisingly) and she asked him if he could possibly go to the nearest supermarket to get things for dinner. Chris, amazed by the chance to leave the house without having to go to see Margaret, immediately accepted.

 

Some people stare, which is a thing he didn’t realize would happen. No wonder, though, in hindsight. The story must have spread like wildfire, especially after what went on with Hannah and Beth last year. Another terrible tragedy at the Washington state; this time with survivors to gawk at. At least he doesn’t see anyone from school (classes have started back up, but Mom hasn’t said a word about it, and neither has Chris), which is a small blessing.

 

But in spite of the twelve year old pointing at him and the old women making the sign of the cross the minute they pass by his aisle, not to mention the people who offer their “support” to him in the most cringy way possible, Chris is actually doing alright. He’s outside, alone for a time, and Walmart hasn’t changed. It’s still the same prepackaged chicken on the shelves, the good old store brand of salad waiting to be plucked from the fridge corridor.

 

And then he sees the shotgun.

 

About three years ago, Mom’s Irish cousin came over. She stayed at theirs, with her quirky accent and the way she continually kept talking about the Irish uprising against England. It was whatever. The US rebelled against England, too, they aren’t that special. One day she went into Walmart with them (“I need to buy some feminine hygiene products,” she winked. Chris craved death) and totally freaked out at the firearm aisle. She screeched in surprise, staring at it open-mouthed, and refused to cross it to get to the hygiene area. Chris didn’t really get it, at the time, and thought she was being just a weird European. 

 

But right now. 

 

Right now he gets it.

 

His eyes are fixed on the shotgun, almost as if they were glued to its display. He’s stopped in his tracks, hands shaking on the handle of his stupid shopping cart, unable to take a single step forward. 

 

It’s the exact same model as the one Mike used.

 

And it’s ridiculous (of course it’s the same model, the Washington’s had a regular firearm up there just in case, nothing expensive and nothing that could do too much damage, it’s not a shock that they bought it at Walmart). It’s absolutely ridiculous (Mike is  _ fine _ , and he’s  _ fine _ , and everyone’s  _ fine _ ).

 

But he can’t breathe.

 

Chris is staring at the shotgun like it’s the end of the world, like nothing else exists. He can’t stop picturing Mike shooting at the wendigos in his mind, can’t stop seeing their teeth, hearing their hellish screeches. His knees are trembling. 

 

Please please please please  _ please let me live _ .

 

He doesn’t realize he’s whimpering, fallen on the floor and holding himself up by his hands, until a woman comes and asks him if he’s okay.

 

“Yeah,” he rasps out. 

 

What’s another lie, anyway, after so many.

  
  
  


…

 

Margaret isn’t so bad, after ten or eleven visits.

 

By which Chris means that she’s still just as bad, but he’s gotten lonelier and lonelier, so he’ll take any chance he can get to actually communicate with another human being. 

 

“Tell me about your friends, Chris,” she says one day. She leans back a little on her couch, as if bracing herself. 

 

“My friends?”

 

“The ones that were there that night.”

 

Margaret always says That Night. Not the date, not a small description, just That Night. It’s strange, at first, but well. There’s no real doubt about which night she’s referring to. Chris understands, which he supposes is the point.

 

“Uh,” he swallows.”Matt’s the youngest. He’s cool, I guess. I don’t really know him that well.” He fidgets with his feet, licks his lips. Anything to delay saying another word. Margaret’s hand holds that ever present pen. She documents literally every single thing he says. “We weren’t that close to him until Emily picked him up as her rebound.”

 

“Emily?” Margaret asks.

 

“Yeah. Emily. She’s…” A small smile. “Kind of a bitch. She’s whiny, and just. Very Sharpay Evans type, y’know?”

 

Margaret blinks. “That...I do not, sorry.”

 

Chris has to crack a small laugh at that, just short enough to muffle it. “Yeah, I figured. I don’t know. Emily’s kind of a shit. But she’s a good person?” He rubs his hand against his neck. “We’ve known each other since so long that it’s hard not to tolerate her bullshit. I’m used to it.”

 

“Is that something you do a lot, Chris?” Margaret’s voice is neutral, but Chris can tell the question is loaded. “Tolerate other people’s ‘bullshit’?”

 

He blinks. Not today. “Maybe? The regular amount, I guess. Anyway. Uh. There’s Jessica. She’s cute, and I can tell she really likes Mike.” He snorts. “Not the first one.”

 

“Oh? Does Mike have many girlfriends, then?”

 

“That’s an understatement.” He scoffs. “Mike’s just… he goes through girls a lot. Uh. Sleeps with them, too.” He also almost shot his ex-girlfriend the minute he thought she was a danger to them, but Chris doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say that Josh used to do the same thing, either.

 

Margaret rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “What do you think about that, Chris?”

 

“... I don’t know.”

 

“I may be misinterpreting you, Chris. But you don’t have to say ‘I don’t know’ when you don’t want to be rude.” She creepy-smiles. “You can be as rude as you want here. I won’t mind.”

 

“I think it’s a bit scummy,” he mutters. “Sorry but. How is this supposed to relate to what happened...that night? Like? I don’t get it. Aren’t we supposed to be talking about that? We’ve been just. Going in circles.”

 

Margaret clears her throat. Her hands fall on her knees, leaving the pen down. She’s got perfectly manicured fingernails. “Do you want to talk about that night, Chris?”

 

Chris flinches.

 

She nods. “I figured. We have all the time in the world, Chris. There’s no rush. A speedy treatment that doesn’t end up being effective is worse than a slow, measured one. I figured we could get to know each other a bit more before delving into the most traumatic experience of your life that I know of.”

 

He scratches behind his ear. It sounds a bit obvious, when she puts it that way. “Yeah. Right.” Takes a deep breath. “Um, there’s Sam…”

  
  


…

 

Ashley comes to visit.

 

Mom knows, of course, that he likes her. Chris has never been good at subtlety, and being an only parent means that Mom is curious at best and invasive at worst, so she’s all up to date on his love life. Before...that night, Mom used to find excuses to pop into college and say hello to all his friends, bringing some food as her personal form of bribery. She kept mentioning inviting Ashley to dinner, and what a nice girl she was, and didn’t Chris  _ see _ what a lovely girl she was?

 

(He did, Mom. That was kind of  _ the point _ .)

 

Chris is reading a book about thermodynamics (it’s literally the only book he hasn’t read in the house, and he’s a physics student, so it’s actually quite entertaining), lying down on his bed and listening to Coldplay, when Mom knocks on his door. She, of course, lets herself in without waiting for a response.

 

“Chris.” She’s smiling. Uh oh. “ _ Ashley _ is here.”

 

Fuck.

 

Thing is; he’s starting to realize that action and horror movies are absolute bullshit. In action movies, the hero and the girl bond over trauma, hook up, get married, yadda, yadda. It usually fades to black, transitions to their wedding day or some shit. Maybe, when it was all going down...that night, maybe even Chris thought that way. Chose Ashley ( _ he didn’t, he didn’t, but the saw went for Josh anyway _ ) because he was so convinced that he loved her, kissed her and wanted her. Needed her to be his prize, to be there at the end of everything. Because he needed to win  _ something _ from that night. Otherwise, it was all just fucking  _ shit _ .

 

And yet.

 

“Hey.” Ashley is wearing mittens and a huge beanie that covers almost her entire head. Her eyes peek out under it, soft and round, just like he knows them. She looks so small, sat in their white leather sofa, curled up to keep warm (heating is expensive). 

 

“Hey.” Chris is a master with words.

 

“I…” she bites her lip, finally looking up at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit earlier. I know uh. I know Sam has. She told me.” 

 

“Yeah. Sam’s been good.” He suddenly realizes what he said, and backtracks. “N-not that you haven’t been good, I mean. She’s just. Yeah.” 

 

God.

 

“I know,” Ashley smiles. She plays with the end of her sleeve. “I just. I wasn’t ready.” Presses her lips together, until they’re a fine white line. “It’s been...bad.”

 

“Yeah. I know,” he says. “I know.”

 

He isn’t sure, but he thinks he sees tears at the corners of Ashley’s eyes.

 

“I think we should stay friends,” she blurts out. “I...I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And talking. And I just. I can’t handle a relationship right now. I’m sorry, I know I kissed you -”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

Ashley’s mouth snaps shut. She glances at him, anxious and shaky. 

 

“I understand,” Chris says. “I understand.”

 

Gently, he holds out his hand, in the middle of the sofa, between both of them.

 

Ashley takes it.

 

He squeezes tight.

  
  


…

  
  
  


A few days later, he and Sam go to see Jessica. 

 

Mom waves them off, still a bit concerned, but happy to see him out, too. It’s nice. Sam’s stepdad drives them, because neither of them feel quite ready to be in charge of a moving vehicle just yet. The guy’s chill; Chris has met him before. He smiles at him when he sees him, shakes his hand and gives him a strong pat on the back. Doesn’t ask if he’s okay, which is greatly appreciated.

 

“Your stepdad’s cool,” Chris murmurs at her, his shoes clicking against the pavement up to Jessica’s house. 

 

Sam smiles. She has the prettiest smile. “I know. He and mom have been great.” She knocks their shoulders together. It’s, surprisingly, strong enough to make him lose his footing a small bit. God, Chris needs to start working out more. “You ready to see her?”

 

“Yeah.” Chris bites his lip. “Haven’t seen her since the hospital.”

 

“I’ve come here a couple of times,” Sam mutters. Of course she has. Her mouth twists into a frustrated frown. “But I just...I’m not very close to her. She doesn’t like me very much.”

 

That makes him grin. “Aww.”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s okay, Sam,” he reassures her, a slight thrill running through his veins. It’s been a while since he teased someone. “The whole rest of the world adores you.”

 

“Oh, shut  _ up _ .”

 

It’s good. It’s good.

 

Jessica’s actually doing better than Chris expected.

 

“Chris!” She waves at him, standing up from the small puff she’d been on and leaning on her crutches, flipping through a magazine. “Heyyy. Ooh, Sam’s with you.” Her hair’s grown back, after they had to shave it because of some wounds there they didn’t want to risk getting infected. It looks cute on her, that sort-of-buzzcut. 

 

“Hey, Jess.” Raises a hand in greeting. “How’s the leg and the back?”

 

Jessica shrugs, sighing. “It’s getting better. I can walk pretty well in crutches now, which is, let me tell you, extremely sexy.”

 

Sam chuckles. 

 

“I’m sure it is.”

 

There’s a lot of awkward small talk. Sam might not be that close to Jessica, but Chris isn’t, either. She’s the kind of girl that makes him forget what he’s thinking. Beautiful, but not too confident. Sweet, but with a bite. A smile that never quite reaches her eyes. She’s grown quieter now, after that night. Her clothes cover up more, although that could just be that she’s cold. 

 

“Matt’s been really great,” she mumbles. Sips her tea (that’s a change. Chris can remember her inhaling coffee like it was oxygen). “We’ve bonded after all that stuff.” She smiles. “Believe it or not, Emily’s been cool, too.”

 

“No way,” Chris scoffs. Because he has no filter.

 

“It’s true!” Jessica insists, a low whine. “She’s kinda cool. And I’m over Mike, so it’s not like we have anything else to disagree about.” She rests her head on her hands, her elbows touching her knees. “Also, she was the other person who can’t walk - she sprained her ankle, you see - so we bitch about it to each other.”

 

“At least...you can do that.” Oh man. Sam’s struggling so bad to empathize. 

 

“Yeah.” Jessica smiles at her. “Hey, Sam. Thanks for coming to visit. Even with Emily, it’s nice to have someone other than twenty family members around.” She rolls her eyes. “And they all call me Miss, can you believe it? You’re always bringing cookies, too, which ohmigod, don’t tell my doctor.”

 

Chris raises his eyebrows at her. Sam didn’t bring  _ him _ any cookies.

 

Sam’s blushing. Sam is  _ blushing _ .

 

It’s a good day.

 

…

 

When Margaret asks if he’d be willing to discuss his triggers, Chris blinks.

 

“...Triggers?” he asks, frowning. “Like. Things that offend me?”

 

Margaret’s lips thin. “Ah. No, I’m afraid. The term ‘trigger’ is something we use in reference to words, objects, symbols...anything that will bring up traumatic experiences.” She cocks her head. “It’s important to know what affects you so you can prepare yourself. Emotionally.”

 

“Oh.” Chris rubs his hands together, lacing his fingers. “Uh. I don’t know.” 

 

“That’s natural,” she assures him. “We aren’t consciously aware of many of our triggers until they externalize themselves. Maybe keep in mind things that set you off, or make you feel upset, and write it down for me. That way we can work on it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

It feels sort of childish, making a list of things he doesn’t like (Margaret repeated several times that they’re psychological responses to trauma, but Chris isn’t quite convinced). He does it anyway, though, because it’s not like he has anything better to do. Mom’s not letting him go back to college for at least a semester, and Sam’s left with her family to go on a trip to see her family back in Europe for a while. 

 

_ triggers _

 

_ guns like idk in general? but especially shotguns _

 

_ being alone at night _

 

_ when mom leaves _

 

_ every present Josh gave me _

 

_ stupid horror movies _

 

_ sound of saws _

 

_ police cars _

 

Margaret smiles at him when he gives her the list. This time, it’s almost not creepy.

  
  


…

 

It takes him three more months to actually see Josh again.

 

Chris thinks about it, of course. It wouldn’t be too much of a overestimation to say that Chris thinks about Josh almost every single day he spends locked inside a house that seems to shrink by each hour he has to spent there. At first it was worry, the nail-biting fear of losing his best friend. Mom doesn’t talk about him (she, like almost everyone else, is convinced Josh is the sole guilty party for what happened to them, and even refuses to say his name), but Chris got updates from Sam. The doctors stabilized him. Then he had a breakdown. Stable again. Tried to run away from the hospital and fainted in the hall. Got let out.

 

“Police hasn’t charged him,” Sam said. “They could find nothing but pit guts and the old man, and all of us swore it wasn’t Josh who killed him. There’s no evidence.”

 

After worry, it was anger.

 

(“ _ It must be nice,” Chris mutters. _

 

_ Josh raises an eyebrow. “What must be nice? Chess club, you nerd?” _

 

_ “Having sisters,” he clarifies. At the other boy’s incredulous look, he bumps their shoulders together, light and playful. “Hey, I’m an only child. I’m allowed to fantasize about your daily torture.” _

 

_ Josh laughs. “Okay, okay.” He pushes his glasses up - Josh actually needs glasses to read, but he refuses to wear them anywhere in public. Chris thinks he’s being ridiculous, but it’s not like the dude will actually listen to him. There’s almost a faraway look in his eyes. “Nah. I mean. Having twin sisters is annoying, I won’t lie. And they’re both girls, which makes it even worse.” Scrunches up his nose. “But they’re good, Hannah and Beth. ‘s nice.” _

 

_ “Like I said,” Chris smiles. “It must be nice.” _ )

 

Anger at making him choose. Anger at the things he said. Anger at the way he seemed not to even come close to comprehend what he had done. Anger at the secrets. Anger at the lies. Just. Rage, pent up inside him, bottled up and ready to burst the moment he crashed. Chris was so  _ angry _ at him.

 

It  _ hurt _ .

 

Because he misses him.  He misses shitty pop music, and going with him to shop for underwear because Chris gets embarrassed by himself (“ _ You’re such a big baby,” Josh says, still doing everything he asks for. _ ). It’s impossible not to want for Josh’s friendship, even after what happened to his sisters. That year was rough, yeah. It was fucking awful, he’s not denying that. But Josh pushed through. Josh always does. It’s his  _ thing _ .

 

Until it isn’t.

 

…

 

The Washington estate is obnoxious, but consistent. 

 

“Christopher,” Melinda Washington blinks when she sees him, lips parted slightly. There’s a snug, cashmere shawl wrapped around her shoulders that probably costs more than Chris’s entire house or something. “We...weren’t expecting you.”

 

No shit.

 

“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck, swallows dry saliva. “Is...uh, is Josh here?”

 

As if he doesn’t fucking know that Josh is here. As if he didn’t triple-check with both Sam and Matt before even  _ thinking _ about coming here.

 

“...Yes. Joshua’s home,” Melinda murmurs. She doesn’t meet his eyes, but her hand tightens on the thick metal door. It’s strange; this feeling he has, where it seems like he’s a stranger to them, an outsider. Chris hasn’t been anything but completely welcome in the Washington’s since he was in middle school. “What for?”

 

“I just wanted to see him.” He shrugs. “Y’know. Check if he’s okay.”

 

“Oh.” Melinda doesn’t sound too reassured by it. “Let me ask him if he’s feeling up to it, will you? He’s a bit...under the weather.”

 

That’s putting it mildly.

 

She comes back less than three minutes later, expression blank. There’s a small wet spot on her shawl, the shape of  dried tears. “Joshua can’t take any visitors today, I’m afraid. See you soon, Christopher.”

 

Melinda shuts the door in his face.

 

…

  
  


Chris considers giving up. Wants to go back home, lick his wounds, and forget Joshua Washington. Tells himself that the dude is obviously fucked up in the head, and he doesn’t want that influence anywhere around him.

  
  


…

 

Chris shows up at the Washington state every single day for a week before Melinda gives in.

 

“Christopher,” she says his name before she’s even fully opened the door, her voice just barely more polite than a hiss. Her teeth are grit together. “Come in, please.”

 

If Chris were Josh, he’d grin at her, maybe even wink at getting what he wants. Since he is still himself (mostly), Chris just nods and tries not to throw up.

 

“Please remember not to be too loud,” Melinda dictates, short and to the point, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. “Joshua’s still recovering, you know. Wouldn’t want to upset him, I’m sure you understand.” 

 

“Yeah, ‘course.” Chris nods. His hands are sweaty. “I get it.”

 

“Clearly.”

 

Melinda doesn’t come into Josh’s room with him, just holds the door open and gestures at him to walk in. The door shuts silently behind him.

 

“Hey,” Josh croaks out.

 

He’s sitting on his dad’s leather armchair, the one that has a hole in the armrest to put a cup in there. There’s no trace of Josh’s usual dark-but-stylish outfits, just woolly pajamas that dwarf Josh so much that it’s striking, given how big and too-much-for-this-world he used to look. His hair, usually  _ dripping _ with hairgel, just falls in unruly curls over his ears. The guy looks...rough. Weathered, like he’s taken some hits. 

 

“You’re a persistent ass,” his best friend says, cocking his head to the side. A bandage covers a small part of his chin. 

 

Chris coughs. “Uh.”

 

“I didn’t think you had it in you, seriously. Every day? Melinda was starting to go nuts. The woman has only a few ways of politely telling someone to fuck themselves.” Josh rolls his eyes, then winces. “Damn. No more football for me anytime in the future, bud.”

 

Chris is frozen.

 

Josh huffs. “Are you gonna say anything, big boy? Or are you just going to stand there, gaping like a fucking fish -  _ hh _ .”

 

And Josh is quiet, blessedly quiet, because Chris has wrapped his arms around him.

 

…

 

Immediately after hugging him, Chris runs the fuck away, because there’s a limit to bravery, and it isn’t very high up there.

 

“I’m still impressed,” Sam says. “Didn’t think you’d make it that far.”

 

“Ugh,” Chris sinks on his bed, rubbing his face with his hand. “The guy probably thinks I’m gay or something.”

 

“Not every gesture of affection between men is inherently sexual, you know that, right.” Sam sounds annoyed. “Honestly, Chris, your comments aren’t funny.”

 

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry, geez,” Chris mumbles. “I’ll be more PC next time.”

 

“Hilarious.”

 

Sigh. “...I’m sorry, Sam. Just...trying to be a dick to forget about shit. You know me.”

 

“Unfortunately,” she mutters, but she sounds a bit less ready to hang up now. “Did he…” she hesitates. “Do you know if he’s okay?”

 

“Not really,” Chris admits. “I just… he looked really bad. Thin and shit. Fuck, he looked like a teenager again. Before he got all buff, remember?”

 

“Yeah, I remember.” It’s a whisper.

 

“Yeah. Seeing him like that is not a lot of fun.” He bites his lip. Pauses, for a second, and works up the nerve to ask what he’s been wondering for weeks. “Why haven’t you gone to see him, Sam?”

 

She’s visited literally everyone else. 

 

“...I’m not...I’m not ready yet,” her voice is small. It’s trembling, fragile glass ready to shatter. “You...Josh is your best friend, I know that. But I visited him after...after Hannah and Beth. And I just. I’m not ready yet.”

 

“Okay,” Chris doesn’t push. “Okay. I love you, Sam.”

 

“Love you too.”

 

…

  
  


“Josh told me you saw him,” Ashley’s voice says the moment he picks up the phone.

 

“...What?” 

 

“Yeah.” Ashley coughs a little. “He says you were all touchy feely and then ran with your tail between your legs.”

 

“...Since when do you and Josh talk?” Chris finally manages to croak out. 

 

“Since you chose him over me when you had to decide who to saw in half,” her voice is breezy, devoid of emotion, but Chris almost throws up at hearing her words. “Took me a while, but. If you’d do that, then he must be worth knowing, despite what he did to me.”

 

“Did he apologize?”

 

“You think apologizing for permanently traumatizing me is enough?”

 

“No! No, of course not -”

 

“He did,” Ashley murmurs. “He apologized. I don’t know, Chris. It helps that I was one of the morons fucking laughing as we humiliated our friend and drove her to her death.” She takes a deep breath, audible even through the phone.”I can...understand. But anyway. He just. Told me you saw him.”

 

“I did.”

 

Ashley chuckles. It’s not a happy sound. “I don’t know what else I expected.”

 

She hangs up.

  
  


…

 

“I can’t believe Ashley’s talking to you,” Chris says.

 

“Well.” Josh shrugs - only it’s a less of a shrug and more of a tiny rising of his left shoulder, since his right one is still a mess. “You’ve got good taste in girlfriends. She’s good.”

 

“Ashley’s not my girlfriend,” Chris snaps. It pisses him off, for some reason, even though he’s pretty certain he’s in no shape for any kind of relationship at the moment. “She’s just...I’m not even sure she’s a friend.”

 

Josh whistles. “Downgrade, huh? What’d you do? I thought you guys were a damsel in distress and knight couple.”

 

“Well, I don’t know if you noticed, Josh,” Chris bites out. “But we were kind of fucking mentally scarred a little while back. So forgive me for not having ‘relationship drama’ on my list of priorities.”

 

Silence.

 

“Hah,” Josh swallows. “Guess you finally grew a spine.”

 

“Why are you…” Chris fumbles, struggling to find words. “Why are you like this, Josh?”

 

Like  _ this _ .

 

Laughing and joking and refusing to see anything. Draped in blankets and hidden away from sight. Cackling as he holds the keys to their hearts.  

 

“The hospital said it’s schizophrenia.” 

 

Chris stills.

 

“They’re not sure, you know,” Josh carries on. “Been to enough shrinks in my life to know that they’re never  _ sure _ about anything. Love popping you up with pills just in case, though. Although I gotta admit these drugs are a bit better than the last ones.”

 

He fiddles with the end of his sleeves. “So that’s the word for it, if you’re looking. That’s what kind of crazy I am.”

 

“You’re not crazy,” Chris can’t help but say it. He’s told himself that before: Josh is crazy, Josh is just  _ insane _ . But it’s not true, it’s not true. And suddenly he needs, more than anything in this world, to let Josh know about it.

 

“Shit, really?” Josh’s voice is choked full of unshed tears. “Damn, that’s some good news. Tell the doctors.”

 

“Josh. Josh, you’re not crazy -”

 

“Me, stressing myself out here like a fucking moron, believing there’s something wrong with me, but Chris just tells me I’m fine! -”

 

“You’re just sick,” Chris whispers. “You’re ill, okay? It’s not...you’re not crazy. You’re gonna get better.”

 

“I’m never getting better, Chris,” Josh keeps laughing. “I’m never fucking getting better. I’m gonna be fucking high all my life on drugs that keep me  _ sane _ -”

 

“Josh -”

 

“I  _ saw _ them, Chris; I saw Hannah and Beth, I saw them and they were  _ there _ -”

 

“ _ Josh _ -”

 

“I’m never getting better -”

 

This time, Josh hugs back, as if he can’t help himself, an unconscious gesture that speaks more than words. Chris holds him carefully, wary of the bandages and the recovering bones he shouldn’t put pressure on, and squeezes the crying boy tight in his arms. He smells like antiseptic and rotting hope.

 

“I’m here,” Chris says. “I’m here.”

 

“Chris, Chris, Chris…”

 

They’ll get better. Not now. But. They will.

…

 

There’s a thousand miles until forgiveness. Even a million more to reach recovery. A yellow-brick path littered with flying monkeys and witches that never die, travellers that wander, aimless, wavering and yet determined, in search of a real heart. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Kudos and comments are appreciated.


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